


A Torchwood Christmas Carol

by Orinoco_II



Category: Torchwood
Genre: A Christmas Carol, Christmas, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-23 14:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17081774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orinoco_II/pseuds/Orinoco_II
Summary: "I think you've picked the wrong book," Jack said.  "You're not a ghost and I can't die.  And what's with the bondage get-up?"Jack receives three visitations on Christmas Eve...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know this has been done before. It's been done before by me too and posted on whofic, if it seems familiar. The festive period seemed an appropriate time to dust off my Torchwood version of my favourite Christmas story!
> 
> For plot purposes, this fits nowhere in canon.

Captain Jack Harkness was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The crowd of horrified onlookers who had seen him plunge off the first floor balcony of the St David’s Shopping Centre and heard the snap of his spine as he landed in the Nativity scene below could confirm it. Jack Harkness was dead as a doornail.

It was to their amazement, therefore, that he sat bolt upright, growled and painfully extricated himself from the manger. If he had been in a more agreeable mood, he might have remarked on the irony of his landing place. As it was, he cursed the confluence of events that had lead him to this point. It was not as if it was his fault that he had tracked an unusual signal here, nor that he had mistaken Father Christmas in his shopping mall grotto for an alien invasion. That Santa had turned out to be so feisty was unfortunate but that was no reason for the queue of parents and children to start screaming, nor any sort of justification for that one particularly vocal mother to call him a paedophile. And it was sheer bad luck that as he had attempted to beat a hasty retreat, he had caught his ankle in a string of fairy lights that had catapulted him over the side of the escalator. Jack loathed Christmas.

He growled again, ignored the gasps and stalked away with as much dignity as he could muster. However, there was no doubt that two minutes earlier he had indeed been dead. That Jack Harkness had been dead and now he was alive must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.

Captain Jack Harkness was a singular man: hard and sharp as a flint, self-contained and solitary as an oyster. His miserable mood hung like a cloak around him and he cut a cheerless figure as he strode through the shopping centre, constantly thwarted by last-minute shoppers, tripping and tangling him with their overstuffed bags. Christmas music blasted out, tinny and persistent, through the speakers. God, he hated this ridiculous song. For starters, a snowman could not physically bring the snow that it was made from and secondly, why anyone would wish for it to be Christmas every single day, he could not fathom. Once a year was once too often for Jack Harkness. He finally found his way out into the night and remembered that Gwen had taken the car. He would have to walk.

He trudged down Lloyd George Avenue as the first snow began to fall. Jack sighed heavily. Christmas. Bloody Christmas. Christmas, for Jack, was filled with memories of death and destruction, alien invasions and yet more death. Full of ghosts and a distinct lack of festive cheer. And it seemed to him that the rest of the world spent money they didn’t have on presents they didn’t need, overindulged on alcohol and turkey and started arguing before Christmas dinner had even been cleared away. Why anyone chose to celebrate this dreadful time of year, he would never understand.

A group of carol singers stood outside the Millennium Centre, butchering a dreary version of ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’ with gusto. When one of them - a young boy - shook a bucket of loose change in Jack’s direction, the look in Jack’s eyes was enough to turn his face pale and send him scuttling in the other direction. Jack took a strange satisfaction in that, even if it didn’t stop the singing.

To add to his already sour mood, Jack skidded on the thin layer of snow covering the Quayside and landed on his arse with an undignified thump. He gritted his teeth, stood up and stomped into the Tourist Information, slamming the door so violently behind him that the thin walls shook. As he crossed the Hub, he passed Owen, who was fidgeting up and down in his chair.

“Any chance of having some heating on?” Owen called, as Jack passed him. “I’m freezing my bollocks off.”

“Waste of money,” Jack snapped without breaking his stride. “Put on another jumper.”

Owen made a derisive snort, which Jack ignored as he marched into his office and shut the door behind him. He stood at the window and watched, unmoved, as Tosh attempted to type in a pair of thick woollen gloves, her face mostly hidden behind a long scarf wound several times around her nose and mouth. Jack himself had never felt the cold.

“Merry Christmas Jack,” Ianto greeted him cheerfully.

Jack jumped. He had been so pre-occupied that he hadn’t heard Ianto approaching. Ianto must have just come in from outside, for his face was all aglow; his cheeks were ruddy and his eyes sparkled. And, for some reason, he was wearing a Santa hat.

“What the hell have you got on your head?” Jack asked bluntly.

“Thought it might bring some Christmas cheer,” Ianto suggested, stroking the white fur trim thoughtfully.

“Bit inappropriate for the workplace, isn’t it?” Jack shed his coat and hung it up.

“Well, your sexual innuendo’s a bit inappropriate for the workplace,” Ianto countered. “But you don’t hear me complaining.”

Jack was in such a foul mood that he didn’t even bite at that. He thumped down behind his desk with a heavy sigh. “What have you got to be so merry about anyway?” he sniped.

Ianto laughed incredulously. “What have you got to be so grumpy about?” he asked.

“Half my staff have got the day off tomorrow for no good reason.”

“It’s Christmas Day,” Ianto reminded him with amusement.

“So?”

“Season of goodwill and peace to all men?”

“Season of commercialism and over-indulgence, more like,” Jack complained. “If I had my way, every idiot who went about saying ‘Merry Christmas’ would be microwaved with their own pudding.”

Ianto shook his head, still smiling. “You are in a bad mood today,” he remarked. “I actually came to ask if you wanted to come and have dinner with my sister’s family tomorrow?”

Jack curled his lip disdainfully. “Why would I want to do that?”

Ianto gave a small shrug. “Because Christmas is a time to spend with the people we care about.” He smiled again. “No one should be alone at Christmas, Jack.”

“I won’t be,” Jack said. “I’ll have the Rift for company.”

“Suit yourself,” Ianto replied cheerfully. “You won’t dampen my Christmas spirit, Mr Humbug. The offer still stands, if you change your mind.”

Ianto waltzed merrily out of Jack’s office. He met Gwen on the gantry outside and Jack heard him wish her a jovial ‘Merry Christmas’ as they passed, and found his fists clenching irritably in response. Gwen blundered through the door with an armful of assorted toys and books and games.

“What the hell is all that?” Jack asked.

“Um…” Gwen appeared slightly out of breath. She dumped her wares in the chair opposite him. “I’m doing this charity thing,” she explained. “I know it’s a bit last minute, but you know what I’m like with organisation. Anyway, I’m selling this stuff and the money all goes to homeless charities.”

“Why would I want to buy any of that?” Jack asked scornfully.

“I know, I know.” Gwen pushed her fringe out of her eyes. “It’s tat, mostly, but you can throw it in the bin — it’s the donations we need.”

“Money?” Jack queried.

“Yes, Jack. That is generally how charity works.”

“For homeless people?”

“Yes,” Gwen said. “The charity buys them clothes, toiletries, food and drink. You know — the basics.”

“What’s happened to Social Services?”

“Er…” Gwen appeared perplexed. “Nothing.”

“Then they can help,” Jack said dismissively. “I’ve told you before, I’m not a social worker.”

“It’s just a charity donation, Jack. You must have quite a bit of money saved up, after all these years.”

Jack pulled his chair into his desk, opened a file and began to read it. “Yeah, and I’ve been paying my taxes all that time.”

“Jack!” Gwen protested. “It’s Christmas. It’s freezing. Some of them might die out on the streets tonight.”

Jack shrugged callously, wishing Gwen would leave already. “Planet’s overpopulated.” He went back to reading the file, ignoring Gwen’s wide and glistening eyes.

“You’re a heartless bastard sometimes, Jack Harkness,” she hissed and stormed out.

“What about all this crap?” Jack called, gesturing to the gifts, but she was already gone.

Muttering to himself, he sank back down in his seat. He checked his watch. It had just gone 9pm. He heard Ianto call a cheerful goodnight and yet another Merry Christmas. Gwen followed shortly after, and not long after that, Tosh. None of them bothered to bid him farewell. They never did these days.

Thirty minutes later, he wandered out into the Hub to find Owen winding his scarf around his neck. He turned when he saw Jack, blowing on his hands and rubbing them together to warm them up.

“Alright if I come in a bit later tomorrow?” Owen asked tentatively.

Jack put his hands in his pockets and glared at him. “No, it’s not alright,” he said. “And it’s not fair. I’ll be here early enough. If I docked your wages for it, you wouldn’t think it was fair, I’ll bet.”

Owen sighed. “Bloody hell, Jack. It’s only once a year.”

“A poor excuse for wasting money every twenty-fifth of December,” Jack declared. “The Rift doesn’t take Christmas off. But I suppose I’ll have to let you drag yourself in from whatever seedy bar you’ve been inhabiting at whatever hour you see fit, as long as it’s before nine. And I’ll expect you here all the earlier on Boxing Day.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Owen agreed, checking his watch, and giving his hands one last warming rub. He zipped up his jacket and dashed out of the Hub without a backward glance.

Jack found some sad-looking leftovers in the fridge and ate them cold on the ratty old sofa. Having read all the briefing papers and mission reports he could take, he decided to go to bed. He hadn’t bothered to turn on any of the lights and the Hub was lit only by the swirling blue lights of the Torchwood servers.

Now, it is a fact that there was nothing in particular about the water tower that stretched up into the cavernous roof of the Torchwood Hub, except that it was very large. It is also a fact that Jack had seen it, night and day, every year since it had first been constructed; also that Jack had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of Cardiff. Let it also be borne in mind that Jack Harkness had not bestowed one thought on Captain John Hart, his one-time Time Agency partner, since he had disappeared into the Rift some months previously. And then, let anyone explain to me, if they can, how it happened that, as Jack passed by the water tower, he looked into it and saw not grimy glass, but John Hart’s face.

John Hart’s face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the Hub were, but had a dismal light about it. Jack whipped round quickly, but there was no one standing behind him. His breathing rattled loudly in the empty Hub. To say that he was not startled would be untrue. His heart thumped a little faster, but Jack took a deep breath, drew a torch from his pocket and flashed it around. The beam traced over the abandoned desks of his colleagues; otherwise, the Hub lay undisturbed.

He turned off his torch and climbed the steps to his office, not caring a button for the darkness. But before he climbed down into the space beneath his office, he thoroughly checked it. Everything was as it should be. Nobody under the desk, nobody under his chair; nobody in the closet; nobody in his great coat, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude on the coat stand. (Jack did not feel at all ridiculous after beating it thoroughly with a nearby hockey stick.)

Quite satisfied, he descended the ladder onto the rough camp bed below. He shed his boots, trousers and shirt and slid under the scratchy blanket. Recollecting the face in the water tower, he did not fully undress that night.

He lay back on his bed and stared up through the hole above him; at the greyish light filtering down from his office above. The humming of the Hub around him, which he had so many times found so comforting, seemed to whisper cruelly tonight.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, his gaze wandered across the ceiling of his small sleeping compartment. His glance happened to rest upon a bell: a disused bell that hung in the room and communicated for some purpose now forgotten with a room deep in the archives. It was with great astonishment, and with a strange inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound, but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell and every alarm in the Hub.

This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The alarms ceased as they had begun: together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, down by the water tower, as if someone were dragging a heavy chain over the metal walkways. The noise began to proceed up the stairs towards his office.

“It’s a dream,” Jack muttered to himself. “Just a bad dream.”

The door to his office above him opened. Jack cautiously pushed away his blanket and started to climb the ladder, each rung biting cold into the soles of his bare feet. He slowly raised his head through the hole in the floor to be confronted by the strangest sight.

“Hello lover,” John Hart greeted him with a leer.

Jack sighed deeply and irritably. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s nice to see you, too.”

Captain John Hart was wearing his usual stained vest and red military jacket, but for some reason Jack could not fathom, he had attached a heavy metal chain around his middle and was dragging it along the floor behind him.

Jack climbed the rest of the way out of his bunker. “What do you want?” he asked coldly.

“Much,” John replied. He flopped down into Jack’s chair and put his feet up on the desk. Since the other chair was still occupied with Gwen’s charity goodies, Jack had no choice but to stand, and try to look imposing clad only his underwear and thin t-shirt.

Jack folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. “I’m having a nightmare.”

“What makes you think that?” John asked.

“Because this can’t be happening,” Jack replied. “You’re probably just the result of that dodgy slice of pizza I ate earlier. I knew I should have thrown it out.”

“Sorry, Jacky boy,” John grinned. “But I’m as real as you are.” He reached over and gave Jack a hard pinch.

Jack absolutely did not squeal as he leapt backwards. Frowning, he poked at the floor with his bare toes. “So what are you doing here?”

John cleared his throat dramatically. “It is required of every man that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death.”

“What?” Jack snapped. He was cold and tired and the last thing he needed right now was John Hart in his office quoting Charles Dickens.

John shrugged. “I’m here to save you.”

“From what?”

“From yourself.”

Jack laughed bitterly. “A little late for that, aren’t you?”

“I hope not.”

“And you’re not exactly my idea of a guardian angel.” Jack gestured at John. “What’s with the bondage get-up?”

“I wear the chains I forged in life,” John intoned seriously.

Jack put his hands on his hips as he thought about this. “I think you’ve picked the wrong book,” he said eventually. “I can’t die and you’re not a ghost.”

“You have to give me points for the costume though, right?” John rattled his chains and moaned atmospherically.

Jack snorted. He wasn’t going to give John Hart points for anything. “So what?” he enquired sarcastically. “I’m going to be visited by three ghosts?”

“Exactly,” John confirmed. Then he pulled a face. “Well, no. It’ll just be me. But I can wear different costumes if you like?”

“I’d rather you didn’t turn up at all.”

“Without my visits,” John said. “You cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect my first visit tomorrow, when the bell tolls One.”

Jack huffed. “Can’t we just get it over with now?”

“Expect the second on the next night at the same hour,” John continued. “The third on the next night at twelve. Ish.” John stood up abruptly and flipped open his wrist strap. “See you later, gorgeous.” He winked, pressed a button and disappeared.

Jack stood alone in his office, puzzling over all that had just occurred. He walked to the door and looked out over the Hub. Myfanwy cawed from up in her nest. He stood and listened. He swore he could hear the whispering again. This place was so full of memories; so full of ghosts. There was Suzy, behind her welding mask. Alex, flirting with Marie. Lucia. Gerald.

He took a sharp breath and closed his eyes. The ghosts faded away. What was John talking about? Jack didn’t need saving. If ever there was a man less in need of saving, it was a man who couldn’t die. So he’d become hard — cynical — in the last few years. He’d had to. Watching everyone around you grow old and die whilst the one man who could offer you some kind of comfort swanned around the Universe with his latest young sidekick would be enough to make anyone a little misanthropic. Trying your hardest to do the right thing and constantly failing would make even the best of men dispirited. And who was John to lecture him anyway? John Hart was the most narcissistic hedonist Jack had ever known. And he’d known a few, in his time.

He retreated back into his office and closed the door. And being - from the mixed emotions of John’s visit, or the fatigue of his shopping centre antics earlier that day, or his glimpse of the ghosts of his past, or the lateness of the hour - much in need of repose, went straight to bed, still without fully undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant.


	2. Chapter 2

When Jack awoke, it was so dark that he could scarcely see the hole in his office floor above him. He brought his watch to his face and illuminated its face. To his great astonishment, he saw that the hands were pointing to twelve. Twelve! It had been past two when he had finally gone to bed. His watch must have stopped. He held it close to his ear and heard its rapid little pulse beating.

“That’s impossible,” Jack murmured. “I can’t have slept through a whole day and into another night. Aliens must have taken over the sun and this is twelve noon.”

The idea being an alarming one, he scrambled out of bed, up the ladder and into his office. He woke his computer from its slumber with a flick of the mouse and called up a link to the CCTV camera on the Plass above. Roald Dahl Plass was deserted. It was foggy out and a crisp, undisturbed covering of snow lay glistening under the streetlights. There was no noise of people running to and fro, and making a great stir, as there unquestionably would have been if some hostile extra-terrestrial force had parked its spaceship in front of the sun and plunged the Earth into a never-ending night.

Jack went to bed again and thought, and thought, and thought it over and over and over, and could make nothing of it. The more he thought, the more perplexed he was; and the more he endeavoured not to think, the more he thought. He really should have thrown out that pizza.

He illuminated his watch once more and watched as the hands agonisingly ticked over to one o’clock. Light flashed up in the room upon the instant and there was John’s face, looming above him as he peered down at Jack with a crooked grin.

“Oh look,” Jack sighed with an eye roll. “It’s the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“Come on, then.”

Jack reluctantly slid out of bed and climbed the ladder. He was about to suggest he put on some clothes, when John grabbed his arm and slammed down his hand on his Vortex Manipulator.

They rematerialised on a beach. It was a cold day with wind whipping in across the waves. The sandy spit stretched far out into the distance. Jack gazed around in amazement. He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long, forgotten.

“This is the Boeshane Peninsula,” he announced, eyes shining. “I grew up here!”

John grinned. “What’s that on your face?” he asked, pointing.

Jack muttered, with an unusual catch in his voice, that he had something in his eye, as he swiped at his cheek. “Where are we going then?”

“You recollect the way?” John inquired.

“Remember it?” cried Jack with fervour. “I could walk it blindfolded.”

“Strange you never mentioned it all those years we were together,” John noted. “Lead on then.”

They walked along the soft sand, Jack recognising every tree and rock and building, until the towers of the town appeared in the distance, with their shining glass windows and gleaming walls. Some children shot past them on hover scooters, calling to others in trucks and cars driven by their parents. All these children were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the beach was so full of merry music that the crisp air laughed to hear it.

Jack recognised some of the children and was rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them. His cold eye glistened and his heart leapt up as they went past. He was filled with gladness when he heard them give each other Merry Christmas as they parted at the doors of the tower blocks and made their way home. Jack did not understand how he could feel like this. Had he not been belittling the very idea of a Merry Christmas just hours ago?

He recognised one red-headed girl. Eloise — his childhood companion. His face lit up and he tried to call to her.

John put a surprisingly gentle hand on his arm. “They can’t hear you,” he explained. “They can’t see us. Perception filter,” he explained. He pointed to a squat building, set apart from the rest of the settlement. “Do you recognise that place?”

Jack nodded. “Of course. My old school.”

“It’s not quite empty, is it?” John said.

Jack shook his head. They walked slowly across the grass to the school. It was exactly as Jack remembered it. The sliding doors and the science labs. The smell of rubber-soled shoes and driftwood in the corridors. He led John through the winding, deserted hallways to a classroom at the back of the school. At one desk towards the back of the room, a lonely boy had his head bent down low over his books.

“So you were a nerd even then?” John remarked, leaning up against the doorframe with his arms folded and an eyebrow raised in amusement.

Jack pulled up a chair beside his former self with tears in his eyes and nodded. He reached out a hand to his younger self and then let it drop. His face — so young — was wrinkled with the concentration of focusing on his reading. How hard he had studied as a child. Always top of the class, but often apart from his friends. Gray had been the popular one, the sporty one; not his geeky older brother.

Jack wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I wish,” he murmured. “But it’s too late now.”

“Too late for what?”

“There was a kid, singing carols up on the Plass last night. I shoulda given him some money, that’s all.”

John smiled thoughtfully and stepped towards Jack. “Let’s see another Christmas.”

They rematerialised in the very same room. His younger self was still there, a little older, but alone again, with his head low over his books. The other children had already left for the holidays.

The door opened and a little boy came flying in. He ran to Jack’s younger self and flung his arms around his neck, wrestling him excitedly away from his work.

“Gray!” His younger self exclaimed, with fond annoyance.

“Come on,” Gray implored. “You gotta come home. It’s Christmas! We’re all waiting!”

The younger Jack stood up, looking regretfully at his books. “I’m not quite finished…”

“Who cares?” Gray laughed. “It’s Christmas! Come on!”

Gray grabbed Jack’s books and stuffed them into his backpack for him. Then he began to drag his older brother, in his childish eagerness, towards the door; and he reluctantly acquiesced. Soon they were on Jack’s scooter and heading for the towers. Gray’s whoops of joy drifted back towards them.

“Cute kid,” John remarked after a moment of silence. “He died, didn’t he?”

Jack sniffed and looked away. “They never found the body.”

John touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on.”

They appeared now on a busy city street. Neon signs flashed from every doorway; cars and bicycles zipped about in the air. It was made plain enough, by the dressing of the shops, that here too it was Christmas time again; but it was evening, and the streets were lighted up.

John led Jack down an alleyway, stopped at a nondescript grey door and asked Jack if he knew it.

“Know it?” Jack said. “Of course I know it. This is the Time Agency.”

They went in, passing through the bright winding corridors that lay beyond the innocuous door and through to the inner offices. At the sight of a man sitting behind a desk in full Agency uniform, with the biggest beard, reddest cheeks and broadest smile that Jack had ever seen, he cried in great excitement:

“It’s Captain Asquith!” He turned to John, smiling. “You must remember Asquith?”

“Of course,” John replied.

Asquith looked up from his work — looked through them — to the clock on the wall. He rubbed his hands, adjusted the uniform that was just a little too snug over his round belly; laughed all over himself, from his boots to his beard, and called out in a comfortable, rich, jovial voice:

“Come on team! It’s time!”

An assortment of fresh-faced Time Agents came streaming through the door, bright-eyed and eager. Jack recognised John amongst them, but not himself.

“No more work tonight,” Asquith boomed. “It’s Christmas Eve. Let’s get this party started!” His infectious laughter boomed out again, as the Time Agents set to work, pushing back desks, decking the halls and bringing in endless plates piled high with food that Jack hadn’t seen for centuries.

In came the musicians, plugging in amps and keyboards and all manner of strange instruments that Jack had quite forgotten about. They set about playing pulsating yet upbeat tunes he did not remember. The room began to fill further as the bodies whirled and twirled one another on the makeshift dance floor. More Agents from other teams poured in. Never had Jack seen a room so full of energy and good cheer. Asquith’s wife arrived and they danced a jig to put even the supplest of his young team to shame.

Jack turned to John. “Where am I?”

“Huh?” John turned to him, distracted. He was engrossed in watching his younger self become intimately acquainted with a sandy-haired young Agent. He grinned. “Sorry. God — I looked good back then, didn’t I?”

“Where am I?” Jack asked again, impatiently.

“You’re where you always were when you weren’t on missions,” John told him.

John led Jack off down a corridor. In a room where most of the lights were dimmed, one shone out from a cubicle in the far corner. Jack knew that desk. He studied the back of his head, bowed down over his computer. He looked at the smooth curve of his neck; his soft cheeks. He was probably only seventeen years old. Working hard, to prove himself; the farmer’s boy from a backwater colony. Jack sighed.

At that moment, the doors burst open and John’s younger self stumbled in. “You’re not still bloody working, are you?” his voice asked in a strange echo.

Young Jack looked up. “Just doing a bit of research.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Young John told him. “You need to chill. Come to the party. Asquith’s actually dancing. And.” He lowered his voice suggestively. “There are some real hotties here from Team Gamma.”

Jack’s younger self reluctantly followed John back into the party. John melted away into the dancers and Jack hovered on the edges, picking at the buffet and watching the revellers. A young woman broke away from the party and came panting over to the table for a drink. 

“Lotty,” Jack murmured to himself.

She smiled at Jack’s younger self. “Not dancing?”

Young Jack blinked rapidly. “I’m…not much good at dancing.”

Her smile widened as she put down her drink. “Let’s see what we can do about that then, eh?”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the crowds. Jack cringed as he watched his younger self stumble about on the dancefloor.

“I’d forgotten what a square you were back then,” John said loudly in his ear over the music.

“I was just a kid,” Jack mumbled, but he could feel himself blushing in sympathy with his younger self, remembering this night now; remembering how they had danced and how he had fallen in love right then and there.

When the clock hit midnight, the lights were turned on and the party began to break up. Captain Asquith and his wife took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shook hands with every Time Agent individually as they went out, wishing him or her a Merry Christmas and forbidding them to come into work the next day. When the cheerful voices had faded away, Jack and John stood alone in the deserted office.

“He was good guy, Asquith,” Jack remarked.

“Was he?” John queried. “It was just a little office party.”

“Not just this,” Jack sighed. “He was just…a great guy to work for. Everybody loved him.”

“They did,” John agreed.

Jack ran a hand through his hair and sighed again. “Kinda regretting the way I spoke to Owen yesterday. I…I should have given him the day off.”

“Come on,” John said. “Let’s move on.”

The room faded away and they rematerialised on a street, not unlike the one in which the Time Agency was located and similarly decked with Christmas decorations. It was only when Jack saw himself striding into view that he realised they had moved forward in time. He was a man now; no longer fresh-faced, and filling his uniform with his broad shoulders and chest.

“Lotty — wait!” His younger self called.

It was only then that Jack spotted her too, walking quickly away down the alleyway.

“Leave me alone,” Lotty snapped.

“Not until you tell me what I’ve done.”

She rounded on him. “It’s nothing you’ve done,” she said. “That’s exactly it. It’s everything you haven’t done.”

“What? Did I forget your birthday?”

“No,” she said wearily. “You didn’t forget my birthday. Not yet, this year, anyway.”

Jack’s younger self winced at that. “Then what?”

“I just…” She sighed. “I’m tired of coming second.”

“Hey — you’re the one who said you didn’t want to be exclusive.”

“Not coming second to another person, you moron,” she snapped. “Coming second to the Agency.”

“It’s an important job.”

“Not that important. You take on more missions than anyone else, you’re gone for months and when you’re not on missions you’re tied to your desk. I never see you. I can’t take it anymore. This is over, ok?”

“Fine.” Young Jack threw up his hands. “Fine. Be like that. I’m not going to apologise for working hard.”

“There’s working hard and there’s being a martyr. We got together a long time ago,” she said. “I can’t even remember the boy I fell in love with back then.”

“I grew up.”

“But I don’t like what you grew into.” She shook her head, sadly. “Have a good Christmas. Say hi to your mom for me.”

And then she was gone. Young Jack did not even attempt to follow her. He simply set his jaw and turned, walking away in the opposite direction.

“Come on,” John beckoned. “We need to get a move on.”

“I don’t want to see any more Christmases,” Jack declared, his head spinning with so many emotions.

“Too bad.”

John grabbed him, slammed a hand down on his Vortex Manipulator and they disappeared. When they reappeared, the scene had shifted dramatically. They appeared to be in some kind of back room and from the smell and the décor and the taste of the air on his tongue, Jack would hazard a guess at 19th Century Earth. He tilted his head and grimaced at the two figures on the bed.

“Is there a point to showing me this?” he asked.

John shrugged, practically drooling at the vision of Jack romping quite merrily with a curvaceous young lady. “No, not really. Just wanted a perv.”

“Can we move on?” Jack snapped irritably.

“Fine.”

The next scene was the Hub, but an old one, before the water tower had been built. A team that Jack had long forgotten were sitting around, wearing paper hats and drinking wine. He was not amongst them.

“Where’s Scrooge got to?” Lucia asked.

“Who knows?” Ling replied.

“Who cares?” Henry added. “The man sucks the life out of any party.”

“What year is this?” Jack asked John.

“1968,” John told him.

Jack’s chin dropped. “It wasn’t a good year.”

“None of them were, were they?”

Jack looked at John but did not reply.

There was a clattering over by the door, as Martin skittered into view. His cheeks were red from the cold, his glasses steaming up and he wore a heavy coat and a thick scarf around his neck. Martin. Jack could have reached out and touched him. So many ghosts of dead lovers in this place. Surely Martin would have a good word to say about him?

“Guess who I just saw?” Martin asked breathlessly, as he shed his coat and scarf.

“A weevil?” Henry guessed.

“Jack,” Martin confirmed, pouring himself a drink. “Standing out there by the church, all by himself. I asked if he was coming down because, well, sort of felt I ought to, and he said — and I quote — only idiots celebrate Christmas. Could the man be any more of an arse?”

The team laughed and Martin laughed with them. Even Martin. Jack turned to John. “I want to leave now,” he said sadly.

John did not reply but simply pressed down on his Vortex Manipulator. Jack was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own bedroom. John vanished, leaving Jack lying on the bed, where he soon sank into a heavy sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Awaking in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, and sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together, Jack did not have to look to know that it was again nearly one o’clock. Not wanting to be taken by surprise this time, he dressed and climbed up into his office to wait for John’s arrival. He sat in his chair and watched the hands of his watch tick round to one o’clock. They ticked on past. Nothing happened.

And then, just when Jack was beginning to think he was not coming, John appeared in the doorway, dressed from head to foot in a red suit with a white fur trim.

“Ho, ho, ho!” he boomed. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Present!”

“No,” Jack pointed out. “You’re Santa.”

John shrugged. “It was the only costume I could find.”

“Ok, I’m ready this time,” Jack said, standing and pulling on his coat. “Where are we going?”

John jerked a casual thumb over his shoulder. “Downstairs.”

He turned on his heel and Jack followed. They walked down into the Hub, where Owen sat at his desk, his head slumped on his hand as he stared at the steady stream of data from the Rift alert system. A tell-tale glass of fizzing water sat at his left hand.

“There’s Owen, working hard,” John noted. “As he should be. I mean — the Rift doesn’t take Christmas off, does it?”

“Owen, I…” Jack trailed off. Owen couldn’t hear him.

“Come on,” John said impatiently, already at the door. “We’ve got a lot to get through today.”

They walked across the snowy Plass. It was daytime now, though Jack didn’t understand how it could be. The Plass was full of families, running and throwing snowballs and enjoying each other’s company. They walked past the bars on Mermaid Quay where several young men in high spirits heckled John in his Santa outfit. John merely flirted in response and posed for a few selfies.

“Why are we walking?” Jack grumbled as he followed John away from the shops and bars. “Why don’t we just use your wrist strap?”

“Sometimes a little exercise is good for you,” John said. “And you could certainly use some.” He prodded Jack’s stomach pointedly.

Jack shot John a poisonous look but did not respond. “I don’t know what the big deal is about Christmas anyway,” he complained as they walked on. “It’s a religious thing, and most people who celebrate it aren’t religious. What good did religion ever do anyone anyway?”

“I think it’s more about other things now,” John replied. “Peace and goodwill and all that.”

“Hm.” Jack grunted.

“What?”

He sighed. “That’s what Ianto said.”

“He’s a smart one, that Eye Candy.”

They had walked to an apartment building Jack didn’t recognise. John led him upstairs and into flat on the top floor. There, curled up alone on a chair, was Tosh. She had a book on her knee, her glasses sliding down her nose and a glass of wine in one hand. Jack resisted the urge to reach out and tuck the loose strands of hair behind her ear.

“Well, cheers Jack,” she murmured, taking a sip of wine. “At least I got the day off.” Her speech descended into a coughing fit that racked her small body for several minutes. When the coughing finally subsided, she leant her head against the side of her chair, her face contorted in pain and her breathing still ragged.

Jack turned to John in confusion. “Is Tosh ill?”

“Very,” John confirmed. “Cancer. Stress related.”

“But…” Jack stammered. He felt as though he had been punched in the gut. “Owen’s a doctor — why hasn’t he noticed?”

“He’s been working so hard, he hasn’t had the time,” John said. “As have they all. No one noticed — least of all Tosh.”

“No.” Jack shook his head. “She can’t. I mean — does she…” He turned to John with frightened eyes. “Tell me if Tosh will live?”

“By the time she realises, it’s too late,” John replied.

“No, no, no.” Jack rushed over and knelt beside her. “Not Tosh. Not after everything…”

“Unless something changes, she will die,” John confirmed. He laid a gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Come on — we need to go.”

The next street they visited, Jack did recognise. Gwen and Rhys’ little flat had always seemed cramped but today it seemed smaller than ever. It was crammed full of parents, aunts and uncles, and cousins. Old people and young children alike, running amok and basking in the glow of the large lunch, the remnants of which were scattered across every available surface.

“Here at least is one person having a good Christmas,” Jack thought hopefully, watching as the party concluded a spirited game of blindman’s bluff, stumbling into the furniture and each other with wild abandon, but somehow always avoiding the ghostly figures of Jack and John squeezed in by the front door. Jack was enjoying the scene before him so much that he begged to be allowed to stay in this place for the rest of the day. But John said it could not be done.

“They’re starting a new game,” said Jack. “Just let me stay another half hour?”

It was a game called Yes and No, where Gwen had to think of the something, and the rest must find out what; she only answering to their questions yes or no, as the case was. The brisk fire of questioning to which she was exposed, elicited from her that she was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in Cardiff, and walked about the streets, and wasn’t made a show of, and wasn’t led by anybody, and didn’t live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a car, or a bear. At every fresh question that was put to her, Gwen burst into a fresh roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that she was obliged to collapse on the sofa in hysterics. At last, Rhys, falling into a similar state, cried out:

“I know! I know what it is!”

“What is it?” cried Gwen.

“It’s your boss! Captain Jack Harkness!”

Which it certainly was. Once the gathering was reminded of the American with no sense of timing or fashion, admiration for Gwen’s inventiveness was the universal sentiment, though some objected that the reply to ‘Is it a bear?’ ought to have been ‘Yes’; inasmuch as an answer in the negative was sufficient to have diverted their thoughts from Jack.

Jack felt stung. Of all his friends to be talking about him behind his back like this, he never would have thought it of Gwen.

He turned to John miserably. “I want to go now.”

John smirked. “Thought so.”

It was a long trudge to their next stop. They walked through parts of Cardiff Jack had rarely visited, except in the pursuit of some alien or other. They arrived at a nondescript house on a rundown estate.

“Who lives here?” Jack asked.

John looked at him in surprise. “I would have thought you’d have known.”

Jack shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“Let’s go in.”

John led him in to a living room more crowded even than Gwen’s. The air was full of the smell of the long-devoured roast dinner and the sounds of the television, of new video games and toys, of laughter and shouting. John led Jack through these crowds to the kitchen, where a familiar figure stood at the sink, washing up.

Jack stared in amazement. “Ianto?” he queried.

A dark haired woman was standing beside Ianto, drying as he washed. “So are you going to spill?” she asked him. “Why didn’t you bring her?”

“Who?” Ianto asked.

“The girl you said you might be bringing.”

“Oh.” Ianto paused just barely in his wiping of a plate. Then continued. “It wasn’t as serious as I thought.”

“Well, she’s an idiot then,” the woman declared. “Letting a catch like my little brother get away. I don’t want her type round my house for Christmas anyway.” She nudged Ianto gently with her shoulder. “Plenty more fish in the sea.”

“Yes.” Ianto forced a smile. “You’re right.”

“Ooh.” Rhiannon jabbed her brother in the ribs with an elbow. “What about Johnny’s cousin Hailey? She’s single.”

Ianto rolled his eyes. “And that’s the only criteria I need to worry about?”

“Go on,” his sister coaxed. “Give it a go. It’ll take your mind off this other girl, and who knows, could be the start of something magical.” She nudged him again. “Go on. I’ll finish up here.”

Ianto closed his eyes and then slowly opened them. “Fine.” He shook the bubbles from his hands and dried them on a tea towel. “But this is only to shut you up and because I’ve had too much wine. I’m blaming you if it goes horribly wrong.”

Rhiannon laughed. Jack watched as Ianto made his way across the crowded living room to squeeze himself down beside a pretty young woman. She smiled at him and Ianto smiled back. Jack felt something tug inside his stomach.

He turned to John angrily. “Ok — you’ve made your point. My friends would be better off without me — can we go now?”

John shook his head. “Just one last visit.”

They used the VM for this one and arrived in yet another living room, different again. It was large and decorated in stylish garlands with a dazzling tree in the corner. But it was strangely quiet. Jack knew the wallpaper; knew the sofa. He knew who lived here.

Alice sat on the sofa, watching Steven playing on the floor with his new toys. She was trying to smile, watching her son, but her eyes were so very sad. Jack ached to reach out and comfort his daughter, but he could not. He wasn’t sure that his comfort would be welcome in any case.

Steven flew a toy dinosaur through the air. Then he looked straight at his mother. “When’s Uncle Jack getting here?”

“I don’t know darling,” she said with false brightness. “He didn’t say a time.”

“Oh.” Steven sat back down on his haunches with a sigh. “I hope it’s soon otherwise Christmas will be over.”

“He’s a busy man.” Alice stood up suddenly. She sat down beside Steven on the floor and put her arms around him. “Anyway, we don’t need Uncle Jack here to make our Christmas special, do we?”

“I suppose not,” Steven agreed reluctantly.

Tears did now roll down Jack’s cheeks and he did not attempt to deny it. John tugged his bushy white beard off his chin and laid a gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder.

“Come on,” he said. “This Christmas is nearly over.”

Jack nodded sadly, watching the image of Alice and Steven huddled together in their embrace until it faded, slowly, to black.


	4. Chapter 4

He was back in the Hub. John had disappeared. At least, the jovial John in the Father Christmas outfit. A figure was approaching slowly along the gantry, moving steadily and silently towards him. It was dressed all in black, in long robes that fell down to the floor, and a hood covered its face. Jack froze.

When the figure was a few paces away, the hood was thrown back. John grinned at him. “Me again.”

Jack took a deep breath, unwilling to admit how seriously he had been shaken by the things that John had shown him. “And now you’re the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, right?”

“Right,” John confirmed. He beckoned with one pale finger emerging from a voluptuous sleeve. “Let’s go.”

The Hub blurred around them before coming slowly back into focus. It seemed darker than it had ever seemed before. John stood silently beside Jack as he watched the scene before him unfold.

The cog door rolled back and Owen came stomping through. He peeled off his leather jacket, flung it down on Tosh’s chair and started to log himself into his computer, muttering under his breath. Metallic footsteps sounded on the gantry above. Gwen emerged from Jack’s office and stood with arms folded looking down at the workstations.

“Where the hell have you been?” she snapped.

“Where do you think?” Owen replied, equally tersely, fingers pecking away at his keyboard.

“I can’t run this place by myself.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to.” Owen spun round in his seat and glared up at her. “Tosh is dead so don’t expect me to help you run this ghost ship.”

“You can’t mourn her forever,” Gwen told him coldly. “Everyone dies at Torchwood.”

Owen looked at her in disgust. “When did you get to be such a bitch?” he asked venomously. “Is it ‘cause you’re not getting any since Rhys left you?”

Gwen did not react. “I want that Mantricle in our cells by the end of the day.” She turned away from him.

“For what reason?” Owen queried.

Gwen gave a small shrug. “If it’s alien, it’s ours.” She disappeared back into the office.

Owen sighed. “Fine,” he said, to nobody.

Jack shook his head sorrowfully. How had Torchwood come to this? Tosh dead and the Institute back to its old hostile ways. And Gwen. Wonderful, caring Gwen — so hard and unfeeling. So much so that she had driven away Rhys, the only thing in her life to keep her sane. Rhys would never believe it but Jack had always been grateful to him for that.

“What’s happened here?” he murmured.

“This is what you made them into,” John told him.

“What’s the point in showing me all this?” Jack asked, suddenly angry. “I can’t change the future!”

“That never bothered you when you were a Time Agent,” John reminded him. He turned in a slow circle, arms spread so that the cloak hung down below his arms like ominous wings. “This is one possible future. Time can be re-written.”

“Not by me,” Jack snarled, jabbing an angry finger in John’s direction.

He turned away and watched Owen a few moments more, until John beckoned him away. He followed and felt John’s cold hand on his as they faded from view.

They arrived in a bedroom in a house Jack did not recognise. A young man of perhaps twenty five and a woman of a similar age were crouched on the floor sorting through a collection of cardboard boxes. At first Jack did not recognise the youth. But then the features grew strangely familiar.

“Steven,” he breathed.

“Who’s this?” the young woman asked, showing Steven a photo.

Steven took the photo from her and studied it. “No idea. One of Mum’s old boyfriends maybe?” He shrugged and handed it back. “Chuck it.”

The young woman threw it haphazardly onto a pile. Jack did not want to look but felt compelled to. He stood over the photograph and saw his own face. The photograph was one of him and Alice, from a long-ago time when she did not hate him. He watched Steven continue sorting with his heart breaking. His own grandson did not remember him.

John pulled him away and proceeded to conduct him through several streets familiar to his feet. As they went along, Jack looked here and there to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered the Hub yet again.

Quiet. Very quiet. The Hub had never been the cheeriest of places but it seemed darker and colder than ever. The Rift manipulator had ceased to hum. No lights were turned on and in a shadowy corner Gwen sat, dressed all in black and typing furiously, the only light the glow of the laptop screen, illuminating her drawn and pale face.

The cranking and grinding of machinery above prompted Jack to look up. The gears of the lift scraped painfully, long since due an oiling. Owen descended into the gloom and stepped off the lift.

“What did you get for it?” Gwen asked, without looking up.

“Five hundred for the gun,” Owen told her. “And fifty quid for the coat.”

“The coat?”

Owen shrugged. “He’s not going to need it where he is.”

“Suppose not,” Gwen agreed.

“Seems like someone should get some warmth out of it,” Owen continued. “It never made him any warmer when he was around.”

“That’s true.” Gwen cracked a bitter smile. “We’re better off without him.”

Owen chuckled. “In a way, it’s a good thing the poor bastard had no family. No one to miss him or try and get their hands on his money.”

Gwen laughed. “Yeah. More for us.”

“I get it,” Jack said, turning to John in a moment of realisation. “The man they’re talking about — it could be me, if I keep behaving the way I am now?”

John shook his head with an incredulous smile. “You really are deluded, aren’t you?”

Jack frowned. “What do you mean?”

John nodded back towards the scene. Owen and Gwen clinked coffee mugs.

“To Jack Harkness,” Owen toasted. “Who has made us infinitely richer and happier by leaving than he ever did when he was here.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Gwen agreed.

Jack froze. He was gone — to where he could only imagine — and not one person had a good word to say about him. Steven had a forgotten him, Tosh was dead, Owen more disillusioned than ever, Gwen hard-nosed and cruel, and…

He turned to John, fearfully. “Where’s Ianto?” he asked quietly.

John did not reply but simply strode away. Jack quickened his pace to keep up with him. John did not speak as he led Jack down endless flights of stairs; down, down, all the way to the vaults. He came to a halt in front of the wall of drawers.

“Toshiko Sato,” John announced, pointing to one of them. “Torchwood Agent. Death from stomach cancer.”

Jack placed one hand on the drawer. He thought of the first time he had seen Tosh, in her orange jumpsuit, broken and dispirited. He had saved Tosh, hadn’t he? He thought he had. But what had he saved her for? This? He rested his forehead against the drawers and whispered her name.

He sniffed loudly and straightened up. “Where’s Ianto?” he asked again.

“You pushed him away,” John said. “He tried to love you but you’ve always been a very hard man to love Jack.” John shrugged sadly. “And after it was over, he was lost. He became suicidal on missions…”

“He left Torchwood?” Jack suggested hopefully, clutching at a hope he knew in his heart to be futile.

John was immovable. Wordlessly, he pointed to the drawer beside Tosh’s. Jack crept towards it, trembling as he went. He slowly pulled out the drawer. And there, through the glass, he saw Ianto’s frozen features, pinched and solemn in death.

Jack sunk to his knees, fat tears falling down his cheeks. “I’m not the man I was,” he cried. “I can change, I swear. Why show me this, if there’s no hope? Tell me I can change the shadows you’ve shown me by changing the way I live?”

“I think you can,” John told him.

Jack scrubbed at his eyes, leaning his head against the drawers. “Why have you shown me all this?” he asked. “What’s in it for you?”

“There’s no hope for me,” John said sadly. “But I think, deep down, you’re a good man Jack. You just need a hand remembering sometimes.”

In his agony, Jack grabbed at John’s cold hand. John sought to free himself, but Jack was strong and held it tightly. Eventually, John flung him away. Holding up his hands in one last prayer to have his fate reversed, Jack saw an alteration in John’s hood and cloak. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost.


	5. Chapter 5

Yes! And the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the time before him was his own to make amends in! John was nowhere to be seen.

“I _can_ be a good man,” Jack repeated as he scrambled out of bed and up the ladder into his office. He was so flustered and glowing with good intentions that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing violently in the future vision and his face was wet with tears.

“I’m still here,” he cried. “The Hub is not in darkness.” He dressed himself with fumbling fingers. “I don’t know what to do!” he laughed, hopping about as he tried to get his socks on. “I’m as a light as a feather, I’m as giddy as a schoolgirl. A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world!”

He laughed. And really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many months, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh. The father of a long, long line of brilliants laughs!

“I don’t know what day of the month it is,” said Jack. “I don’t know how long I was with John. I don’t know anything.” He laughed again. “I don’t care!”

He ran for the invisible lift and willed it to rise faster up to the Plass above. He stepped off the paving slab into the snow and listened to the peel of church bells echoing around the bay. Gone was the fog and in its place was clear, bright, jovial cold and golden sunlight.

Jack stopped a teenager who was skidding past him. “What day is it?” he asked.

The boy looked at him incredulously. “You been out on the lash, mate? It’s Christmas Day.”

“Christmas Day!” Jack grinned and grabbed the boy by the shoulders, much to his alarm. “It’s still Christmas! I haven’t missed it!” He threw back his head and laughed yet again. “Just this once — everybody lives!”

The boy stared at him. “Blimey, you must have been wasted.”

“Do you know if any shops are open?” Jack asked.

The boy shrugged. “Corner shop might be.”

“I’ll give you a tenner if you go and get me some supplies,” Jack offered.

The boy laughed. “Piss of mate. Get it yourself.” And he ran off across the snowy Plass, calling to his friends who were down by the water.

Jack didn’t let the boy's reaction put him off. He walked to the corner shop with a spring in his step, made all his purchases and generously tipped the bemused shopkeeper. His next call was to Tosh’s flat. She opened the door in her pyjamas with dishevelled hair and an ashen face that made Jack want to sweep her straight into his arms.

“Jack?” she asked groggily.

“Get dressed,” he barked. “There’s an emergency.”

His heart broke further as Tosh uncomplainingly dressed in under two minutes and joined him in the car. He refused to give her any details as they drove to Owen’s flat.

“You’d better come up,” Jack told her. “And bring those carrier bags in the boot.”

Tosh took the bags out and obediently followed Jack up the stairs. Owen swung open the door with a look of horror on his face.

“What the hell time do you call this?” Jack snarled.

“You…” Owen blinked at him. “You said I could come in a bit later.”

“I recall no such conversation,” Jack snapped. “And I tell you what, I’ve had it with your tardiness Owen. And therefore…” He advanced into the flat, causing Owen to stumble backwards into his sofa. “I’m giving you the day off!” He beamed and turned to face Tosh. “And you can both come in late tomorrow, after which.” He clapped Owen on the shoulder. “I want you to do a full team physical. It’s about time.”

Tosh and Owen stared at him as if he was mad. Jack simply laughed again. He took the bags from Tosh. “Merry Christmas. Best I could get on Christmas day but you should be able to cobble together some kind of Christmas lunch.” They were still staring at him. He looked at them both with a kindly smile. “No one should be alone at Christmas,” he told them firmly, handing the shopping to Owen. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And he left them to it, bounding down the stairs with a lightness in his heart that he had not felt for some time. He rapped enthusiastically on Gwen’s door and it was opened by Rhys, wearing a highly questionable apron. His face darkened when he saw Jack.

“You are not taking Gwen for work on Christmas bloody Day Jack Harkness,” he snapped.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jack assured him. “I just need to give Gwen something.”

Rhys looked sceptical but held up a finger. “Wait there.” He disappeared into the flat leaving Jack standing on the doorstep. He rocked on his heels and casually whistled a Christmas carol as he waited. A moment later, Gwen appeared, wearing an equally suspicious expression and an equally dubious apron. Rhys hovered in the hallway behind her.

“Jack,” she greeted him warily.

“Merry Christmas Gwen,” Jack smiled. “I’d like to make a donation.”

He handed over a cheque and Gwen’s eyes went comically wide as she read the figure on it. “This is…” She stammered. “This is very generous Jack.” 

“Not really,” he said with a shrug. “Anyway, I’ve got to go.” He looked up. “Ooh — is that mistletoe?”

Rhys had just opened his mouth to warn Jack against going anywhere near his wife under the mistletoe, when Gwen was pushed aside and Jack landed a warm wet smacker on Rhys’s lips. Before Rhys had a chance to speak, Jack had boomed another ‘Merry Christmas’ and disappeared down the stairs.

He pressed repeatedly on the doorbell at Ianto’s sister’s house to ensure it was heard over the clammer within. The door was flung open by Ianto’s sister, mid-sentence.

“Who’s ringing the bloody doorbell on Christmas Day?” she asked, her conviction trailing off when she found herself confronted by Jack’s dazzling smile. She stared up at him in surprise. Rhiannon had her brother’s eyes.

“Is Ianto in?” Jack asked.

A tubby blonde man, who Jack took to be her husband, appeared in the hallway behind her. He glared at Jack. “Who the hell are you?”

“I work with Ianto,” Jack told them awkwardly, his smile faltering.

“You’re not making him go into work on Christmas Day are you?” Rhiannon asked incredulously, finding her voice again.

Before Jack could answer, Ianto himself appeared, still wearing his Santa hat. His face lit up when he saw Jack. “You came!” He was surprised but unable to hide the joy in his voice.

Rhiannon looked between the two men. Suddenly, something dawned on her. “Oh my God,” she announced. “This is the someone you were going to bring!”

“He’s a bloke,” her husband blurted.

“Well spotted,” Ianto observed drily.

“We’re not stopping,” Jack told them. “I’m very sorry, but I need to borrow Ianto for a few hours. I’ll have him back in time for tea.”

“Is it the Rift?” Ianto asked, a little sadly.

“No.” Jack shook his head, smiling. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Ok.” Ianto squeezed back into the house and extricated his jacket from the mountains of coats hanging in the hallway.

“Ianto?” Rhianon queried. “Where are you going? It’s Christmas.”

“I’ll be back later,” Ianto told her. “Promise.” He swung on his jacket and followed Jack to the car.

"We are talking about this when you get back Ianto Jone!" Rhiannon called after him.

"I'm sure we will," Ianto agreed mildly.

“I actually kinda like that hat,” Jack told him with a wink, as they climbed in. “Red really is your colour.”

Ianto and Alice’s first meeting was a little awkward but Steven’s joy at having his Uncle Jack there for Christmas soon brushed it aside. Ianto helped Alice peel potatoes and prepare sprouts, whilst Jack played with Steven and his new toys. And as they pulled the crackers and donned their colourful paper hats, Jack sat back and looked at the three happy faces around the table. “So it _is_ true,” he declared, smiling. “Wherever you find love it really does feel like Christmas.”

*

Jack was true to his word. He really did mend his ways, and to Tosh he became a second father, even walking her down the aisle at her wedding. He became as good a friend, as good a boss, and as good a man as the good old city of Cardiff had ever known, or any other good old city, town or borough in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter at the outset. His own heart laughed; and that was quite enough for him.

And it was always said of Jack that he knew how to keep Christmas well. He celebrated with his friends and family every 25th of December. But once a year was not enough for Jack, and from that day onward he honoured Christmas in his heart and kept it all year long.

FIN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas one and all!


End file.
